


Three

by crossingwinter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (AND FOURTH TIME), F/M, FORGE SEX LIKE IT'S 2014, First Time, GoT spoilers, poppin' bottles y'all, supplemental material
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 18:26:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18555319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: "One?  Two?  Twenty?""I didn't keep count.""Yes you did.""Three."





	Three

**Author's Note:**

> HI THIS IS AN UNBETA'D MESS AND I'M FULL OF EMOTIONS HERE HAVE SMUT HAPPY FORGE SEX DAY EVERYONE

She kisses him three times before she pushes him back onto the sacks.  One for each of the girls he'd been with.  She is not jealous.  She is grateful, really.  Her heart is hammering in her throat and she knows this would be harder if he hadn't done this before.

She's always been the leader of the pack.  Gendry's never minded.    It's why she's liked him so much.  Years and years and years of men who are frightened of women who tell them what to do, what they want, but Gendry was never once afraid.  And he's not afraid now as she tugs her shirt up over her head.  (Three, he was afraid of--afraid to tell her.  Sweet of him, really.  But she doesn't need a blushing maid--she just wants Gendry.)

His eyes trace over her scars--knife wounds she shouldn't have survived, deaths he doesn't know she's inflicted.  But she's had enough death.  There'll be much and more of it before the day dawns.  She wants life now.  

Three times she kisses him when she bends herself to hover over him.  Three kisses--long and slow and deep.  Three for the unnamed girls, three for Hot Pie and Lommy and Weasel.  But most of all, three for the two of them as his hands pull her closer and closer.

His cock is thick, she thinks.  Not thick as the spear he'd made for her, but thick between her palms.  It's soft and smooth, while also unyielding.  In that regard, it does feel like the smooth polished wood of the spear.

She makes to straddle him, to open her hips and take him in but--"No," he says and his hands drop to her ass.  

"No?" she asks him.

And he probes at her skin with a finger.  She hisses.  "Not yet," he corrects and his lips catch hers once again, so she kisses him another three times.

 

She likes the feeling of his chest against hers--strong and sweating.  She likes thats he can feel his heart beating there, just inches from hers.  How she'd wondered after him, hoped he was safe and well and alive.  And he is alive--so very much alive-- _there is only one god, and his name is death_ \--and Arya is too.   Perhaps him of many faces will claim them both but not before they've claimed one another.

It doesn't matter if there were three before her.  What matters is that his hands have always been skilled, have always been deft.  She'd noticed that as a girl.  He has a craftsman's hand, and he makes art of her cunt with them, teasing the skin, bringing it into the flame and back out again, working it until she's whimpering a bit into his mouth.

He pauses.

"You like that?" he asks her, sounding half proud, half surprised.

"Shut up and keep going."

"As my lady--"

She cuts him off with a kiss and rocks her hips against his fingers.  Her heart is racing.  When was the last time her heart raced and it was for something good?  Her heart leaping to her throat with fear, with anticipation of him of many faces, oh yes, but this--this isn't that.  Not even a little.  Not even close to a little.

"Gendry," she whimpers again because she can't tell if she wants him to stop or to keep going.  It feels too good to last,  it feels like she's about to dive into the sea and let herself drown.  He kisses her through it, holds her close as her body flashes hot and cold and her muscles tremble and her breathing goes from ragged to steady.

She swallows.   And licks her lips.  She hadn't been shy at all when she'd kissed him the first time.  Now, though--things are different now.  And the same.  He's still Gendry and she is Arya and his hands are stroking gently at her legs.  He's watching her closely.  The dazed look that had been on his face when she'd stripped off her clothing is gone now.  

"Now?" she asks him, trying to recover.

He probes at her flesh again.  His finger slides into her easily.  "Now," he agrees.  His finger disappears and something broader presses against her.  She bites her lip as he guides her hips down, pressing himself deeper and deeper into her.  His eyelids flutter closed, his lips part in a silent gasp, and his nostrils flare, and Arya takes deep steadying breaths.  Whatever she'd  expected it to feel like, it's not this--a stretch as though using muscles she has never used before, a slick hot heat.

"Should I--?" she asks, and he opens his eyes.

"Do you want to stay on top?"

"Does it make a difference?" she asks.

"Not that I've ever experienced," he shrugs, before flushing again.  "Sorry I shouldn't--"

"Shut up,"  Arya says and bends down to kiss him and that's when she starts to rock her hips.  This she knows about.  This she's seen.  All creatures do this--wolves and horses and men and goats.  She's dreamed Nymeria throwing off lesser wolves that tried to mount her.  But Gendry's not a lesser wolf.  Gendry's pack.  He's always been pack.  And she mounts him sitting up slightly and resting her hands on his shoulders to get better speed.   Her breasts bounce on her chest and Gendry's eyes flit between them, and her stomach, and the cleft between them where they're joined and then back to her face.  "Arya," he hisses.  "Seven bleeding hells--I--"

His hands come to her hips to slow her down and she lets him guide her pace.  She wants this to last.  She doesn't want to think about the night, or death or war.  Just Gendry.  Just Gendry in her arms, inside her, looking at her like she's the moon and all the stars combined.  

One hand leaves her hip and slides to the top of her cleft again.  He fumbles at her, presses, and it sends a sweet something through her that makes her gasp and blurt out his name.  He smiles when she does.   He has the most beautiful smile, the most beautiful blue eyes.   _Don't go thinking about him like that,_ she tells herself.   _It'll just make it hurt worse when you both die._

But they're not going to die.  They can never die while they're like this, as Gendry groans and grunts beneath her, as his fingers bring back the fire he'd worked there before, as she drops her lips to his neck to suck on the skin there, to feel his pulse between her lips as his hips jerk underneath her and his cock twitches within her and that hot and cold feeling she'd felt before blasts through her once again, so unexpectedly this time, and stronger too.

She collapses onto his chest.   She doesn't mean to stop moving, but everything is convulsing and contracting and she needs to feel still.

Then Gendry's gone, and she feels hot wetness across her legs and ass, and she knows he's done too.  He kisses at her cheek, at her forehead, at her neck and she nuzzles into him, warm and content.

"Thank you," she murmurs to him.

He snorts.  "You don't have to thank me."

She kisses him again and for the first time he rolls her onto her back, his tongue slipping between her lips and twining with hers.  She could kiss him like this forever, she thinks.  She could kiss him for all eternity.  Hell could be at the gates and she wouldn't be ready to stop kissing him.  She'd do it.  She wouldn't disappoint her father by shirking her duty like that.  But she  _could_.  She never thought she'd want to.  She never understood Sansa's stupid songs before, but now she's starting to think she might.  If there were songs written about not-quite-ladies and not-quite-princes where it's the lady who claims the prince and then goes off to save the world.  She thinks she'd like that song.

Gendry's still kissing her.  She's lost count of how many kisses now.  He'll keep kissing her through hell too, she thinks.

Except that his lips leave hers.

"Where are you--" but he's kissing her neck now, his hands at her breasts.  He's kissing down her sternum, nudging his lips first to one side and then the other to catch the sides of the breasts.  Then he's kissing the scars on her stomach, long and sweet, his eyes looking up at her.   _How'd you get these?_ he asks her silently.  She bites her lip.  If they live, she'll tell him.

He keeps kissing down her stomach until he's on his knees on the floor of the forge.  He licks his spend from her legs and then--

Arya inhales sharply. 

She'd liked the feeling of his fingers on her slit, but it's nothing--nothing--compared to this.  "Gendry, I--"

"Do you want me to stop?" he asks her sharply.

"Don't you dare."

He gives her a wolfish grin and flats his tongue against her and--

Arya's lost her vision before.  She's felt poison ripping through her body, she's been beaten and stabbed.  She's starved and thirsted.  She's had his fingers on her, and knows what it's  like to die a little death now.  But this...

This is the wind in her hair as she crosses the sea, the howling of wolves echoing through the trees; it's the surety of Needle in her hand, the sight of Winterfell when she'd first crested the hill after however many years away from home; it's the way it feels to have Gendry at her side, at her back, in her heart as her body shudders and arches and she can't even care that at how much noise she's making now.  She'd long ago learned to master her face and her emotions, but with Gendry's tongue at her core she forgets all she learned and can't remember why she ever needed it to begin with.

Her head is spinning, her heart is spinning, and when Gendry kisses his way back up her chest, she pulls his lips to hers and now it's her tongue in his mouth.  He tastes like her and the sea, somehow, and it's the best thing she's ever tasted.

"Don't you dare die," she whispers to him as he curls himself around her.  He's got a lazy, tired smile on his face, and that dazed look is back.

"I won't if you don't," he promises her.

"Deal."

She can forget it's cold outside, can forget it's the middle of winter.   The forge is warm, and Gendry's at her side, and her heart has only ever been resilient and for the first time in years, she truly feels alive.

**Author's Note:**

> HI COME KINKSAME ME ON TWITTER (CROSSING_WINTER) OR ON PILLOWFORT (CROSSINGWINTER)


End file.
